


Wolves Do Not Melt In the Sand

by TheRoseOfWesteros



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Harrenhal AU, Pre - Robert's Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8186371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRoseOfWesteros/pseuds/TheRoseOfWesteros
Summary: "A viper cannot love snow," she had been told, but she had only scoffed. What did it matter to her? He had seen past the blue roses and noticed the strength underneath. Snow might melt, but she was a wolf. And wolves do not melt in the sand.-Or, Lyanna discovers that the snake might suit her better than a stag.





	1. Chapter 1

She had never been to a tourney before, she mused. Not that she had ever wanted to. None were ever held in the North, and it was rare that many Northerners went to one, much less participate. But when Lord Whent of Harrenhal announced the great celebration that he would be hosting, her eldest brother Brandon announced that he would be jousting and had entered the lists. It took oddly little to convince her father to let him attend, and he even went on to ask Lyanna, Ned, and Benjen if they wished to do the same.

She would have thought it suspicious if she wasn't so excited. Now she wished she had at least asked a few questions first.

They arrived at Harrenhal fairly quickly. They had a small escort and fast riders, as per the north, Lyanna always boasted. However, it was still a long ride from Winterfell, compared to other locations, and tents from the other houses had already been set up. She saw the red, grey, and blue of the Tully's, the house Brandon's betrothed belonged to. There was the green and gold of House Tyrell, the white and blue of House Arryn, and the red and gold of House Lannister. She also saw, with a cringe on her part, the black and yellow of House Baratheon. It was the house her betrothed belonged to, was the lord of. Robert Baratheon. Tall, broad shouldered, and with muscles that made his arms look twice as big. She wasn't particularly fond of him.

At all.

And here was the catch her father had failed to mention. Their betrothal was to be announced here, in front of almost all the lords and ladies of the realm. After this…she would be stuck with him whether she liked it or not.

"Well, Lya?" she heard Brandon ask from in front of her. She rode up to his side and took in the view at the top of the hill he was on. From here she could see not only the tents, but Harrenhal itself. Even with its blackened turrets and crumbling stone, it was a sight to behold. A gigantic castle, and it had been brought down by dragonfire.

"It's breathtaking," she gasped, and Brandon grinned, obviously agreeing with her assessment. And then he turned to face her.

"Race you!" he cried, already spurring his horse into a gallop. With an irritated groan and a laugh, she raced after him. She barely saw Ned shaking his head and Benjen frowning at the fact that he couldn't follow them, instead focusing on Brandon's nearing back.

"You'll need the head start, Bran!" she baited him, pleased that his pace got slower when he turned to bite back some comment. It was at that moment that she gained the lead. Now that she had it, she was unlikely to let it go. She was the best horseman in all the North, probably in all Westeros (modesty had no part in it). Lyanna was described as half horse herself, and she had yet to find anybody who could beat her.

Brandon was still tailing her, barely half a horse's length away, when a black blur joined them on her other side. Not expecting it, her horse slowed down for just a moment, but she spurred the destrier on soon enough. Brandon's location had left her mind, her concentration now focused on the agile horse before her. It puzzled her. It was no warhorse, that was for sure, but it sure had stamina.

"Come on, Winter. Come on, beat that bastard."

Where the hell are we even racing to?

She realized she didn't care. She just knew she had to beat the rider in front of her, and her horse was tiring. With one final whip of the reins, Winter gave a lurch forward, and the black horse was pushed back to her side. She glared at the figure in the saddle, a man, she thought, in orange and yellow.

"Jump, Winter. You can do it, we're almost at the camp," she urged, and her horse followed her command. With a leap forward, it earned a few more feet and made it to the edge of the tented area. Lyanna turned Winter to face her opponent, who was staring at her with a smirk on his smug face.

"You are a good rider," he said, the smirk never sinking from his features. They were good ones. His features, she meant. His face was round and seemed as if it was meant to be either smiling or scowling at all times. She wasn't sure how she had come to that conclusion. But it was true.

"Thank you," she replied stiffly, not forgetting how he had burst into the race. "I am the best horsewoman of the North, by popular opinion. Even among the men."

"They allow ladies to behave so in the North?"

Anger flared up in her. "I will let you know that if I wish to ride, no man on Earth could stop me, my lord."

"Prince," he corrected, his piercing black eyes still on her. It was… disconcerting.

"What?"

"I'm a Prince, not a lord. Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell of Dorne." He rode up to her and stuck his hand out for her to shake. Lyanna couldn't help but be surprised that he was greeting her in this way. He should be expecting her to curtsy or apologize, but instead he was introducing himself as an equal. Which they were, although few people would see it that way.

"Lyanna Stark," she returned the courtesy. "Of the North," she added as an afterthought, "obviously."

He chuckled, not retracting his hand. "Well, Lady Stark… do I get a consolation prize?"

"Depends," she allowed him, a small smile tugging at her face. "What do you want?"

"I want a kiss."

She flew back, thoroughly shocked now. "You're a fool."

He nodded, accepting the insult. "And you're boring, my lady," he pouted, as if disappointed.

"I am not!" she almost shouted. "May I remind you that you are the one who imposed upon me, Prince Oberyn."

His attitude did not seem to waver in the least, and he grinned once more. "Very well, my lady. Will you at least save a dance for me today at the feast?"

Lyanna did not answer him, instead huffing and turning her head towards the sound of hooves nearing her location. She could not say she was displeased though, and he saw that, she was sure.

"Lya? Do you want to introduce us to this… man?" her brother Brandon called out as he reached the lines of colour.

Oberyn led her hand to Winter's head and let it go, nodding to Brandon. "Oberyn Martell."

Brandon nodded in return. "Pleasure to meet you, Prince Oberyn. I am Brandon Stark, Lyanna's eldest brother." He said the last part almost threateningly, but Oberyn did not back down.

"Ah yes, I had the pleasure of meeting the lady today. Now, Lord Brandon, if you will excuse me, I have yet to visit my sister. Princess Elia. And her husband, Prince Rhaegar."

"Of course. Enjoy the festivities," Brandon replied, waiting for him to run off.

"I am sure I will." Oberyn looked at Lyanna again. "I will see you today, Lady Lyanna." It was then that he finally left, jumping off his horse and leading the black steed away from them. Lyanna stared after him until Brandon cleared his throat.

"Yes, Brandon?"

"I will remind you that your betrothal is to be announced today, before the celebrations begin."

Lya felt like crying. She thought she had been accustomed to the idea. It seemed she had not. But she did not protest, not this time. "Yes, Brandon."

Bran's face softened and he kissed her forehead. "I know you don't want this, Lya. But there is nothing either of us can do. Father… he already decided. For both of us."

Brandon led her down from her horse, his face sorrowful, and pulled her into a hug. And it was then that Lyanna let out a sob, for some reason suddenly aware of how her world was about to change.

But what she did not notice were the colours of the tent she was behind, and the direction her Prince had walked in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos motivate beyond measure!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oberyn gets into a fight.

He was Oberyn Martell. He would not be participating in a tourney this time, but the Red Viper would be in the melee, of course. It was the reason he had come to this damn thing, besides seeing his sister. He did not often take part in the staged fights put up for the people's entertainment, believing, as did those north of the Neck, that it was good to have surprise on your side when in real combat. But this was the largest tournament he had ever seen, and he decided it was a special occasion. He had been in King's Landing visiting Elia when it had been announced, and so the trip was much shorter than it would have been otherwise, adding to Oberyn's determination. In fact, it all seemed too perfect. If Oberyn believed in fate, which he didn't, he would have said it had a hand in this.

That was why he was here, at Harrenhal, and that was why he had just punched a man in the face.

Well, there were events in between. Racing an unknown rider, meeting Lady Lyanna, being threatened by her brother. Finding out she was betrothed. He was not sure what perturbed him more, that or the fact that he had asked her to dance. He knew she would not accept his first proposal, and intended on leaving her there, slightly distressed and confused, just another victim of the Dornish charm. He would never think of bedding her. She was a child. Beautiful, yes, but still young. But she had reacted in a way he would not have expected. She grew angry and spoke her mind. He admired that. So he asked her to dance, and-therefore- talk.

After, he had gone to Elia. And Elia had had a plan.

"Well, brother? Have you found any ladies to your liking?" she had asked him with cocked eyebrows.

"Not yet," he had grinned, leaning back on a chair. "Although Lord Allyrion's squire is looking handsomer by the day."

Her lips pursed as she sipped her wine. "Not quite what I meant, Oberyn."

"Why?"

"You cannot marry a man."

He stood, his tone a warning. "Who said anything about marriage, Elia?"

"Doran," she replied, unfazed.

He had raged, of course. He did not want to marry, did not want to be stuck to one woman forever. But perhaps if he stalled long enough, his elder siblings would forget. He might take a trip to Volantis again, to get out of Doran's views. The man was too ambitious for Oberyn's taste. At least, too ambitious _about_ Oberyn.

So, when his protests had fallen on deaf ears, he had left the tent in search of something to get his mind off their request. While doing so, he had overheard a man coaxing a serving girl to his bed, despite her obvious anxiety. Already on a short fuse, he had tried to intervene with his own overreacting sense.

And _that_ was why he had just hit an obnoxious lord in the face.

The man tried to tackle him, but Oberyn slid aside, landing a kick to his stomach. The black haired brute roared with anger and lunged again, but was almost immediately held back by a two other men.

"Come, now, Robert. You should not behave this way before the masses," the elder chastised.

"Please, my friend," the other began, "I do not want my sister to get the wrong idea about you." Robert seemed to calm slightly at those words, or at least to find some self control. He shook off the friends hanging onto his arms and took a step forward, still staring at Oberyn.

"Yes, Ned, you're right. Lady Lya should not be given no reason to fear me. I would hate for her to enter our marriage deceived. But you should stay far away from me, snake. Mine is the fury." Those were odd words. Far too eloquent for that lummox. Robert, Ned, and the unnamed lord walked away from where Oberyn stood without a second look.

 _That was your first mistake,_ Oberyn thought. _You should never turn your back on a viper._

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

She had been irritable ever since that morning, and she didn't know why. Well, she did know why, but there was no way in all seven hells she would admit it.

"Lya, the feast starts soon." Her thoughts were interrupted by her brother walking into her tent. He wore an excited and proud smile on his face, but Ned had always loved the idea of making Robert truly family once and for all. If only Lyanna felt the same.

"Ned…" she whispered, and the happy look on his face fell.

"I know you never asked for this, but Robert is a good man. You'll have a good life with him." He sat next to her on the bed and gave her a one armed hug. She pulled away.

"No, Ned. Don't treat me like a child. I have no choice. I have to do this, but I don't have to be happy about it."

"He's a good man."

"Good men wouldn't claim their everlasting love to my face, only to bed whatever pretty girl they see behind my back. I'm not a child. I see these things." Ned looked as if he had been slapped.

"He can change-"

"No, he can't. Please, Ned. Just don't lie to me like that." She turned to the chest of clothes that had been stuck in a corner of the small space. "I have to dress now. I'm to be formally betrothed by the end of today."

She wasn't sure when Ned left. All she knew was that within minutes she was strapped, buckled, and tied into a Stormlands-style blue dress with gold embroidery (which she hated), her hair had been done up into a Southron braid (which she loathed), and her boots had been exchanged for dainty slippers (which she particularly despised). Step by step, with impeccable precision, everything North about her, everything Lya, was being removed.

"You're ready, my lady," the handmaiden, Gwyn, told her, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Lord Baratheon will be very pleased." It was then that something snapped. She was Lyanna Stark, a she-wolf, and she would not be paraded before leering lords like mare for sale. Slowly, as if by their own will, two of her fingers floated towards a pin that lay at the very center of her complicated updo. Ignoring the gasping maid, she tugged at it, letting her mass of hair fall to her waist once more.

"I'll do my hair myself, Gwyn, thank you." She was a Northerner. They could dress a wolf up in wool, but that wouldn't make it a sheep. Her hands deftly moved the hair about into a simple braid down her back, and she smiled at the result. She looked like herself, at least from the shoulders up.

"Are you ready, Lya?" Brandon called from outside, and she sighed.

"As ready as I'll ever be." She took Brandon's arm as they walked towards Harrenhal's castle. The first feast would be attended by most everyone there, besides King Aerys. He had been growing more paranoid every day, and would pick and choose his appearances based on nothing but his whims and Varys' advice. Therefore, it would be an opportune time to announce her future as Lady Baratheon without making it seem like too large of a deal.

"Lyanna," Bran said, as they neared the large doors, "if he ever does anything, anything at all, to tarnish your honor, I will be in the damn Stormlands within days to take you back. And you know the North will support that choice."

"I don't want to marry him, Bran," she whispered, using his childhood nickname.

"Oh, Lya," he murmured, "you're a direwolf of the North. You may be getting married in a sept, but that's no true marriage to a Northerner. Remember that, despite whatever facade you might have to put up for Westeros' sake."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An announcement and the promised dance

The hall had been set up early that day, with a raised dais on one end and large tables grouped together under it. A space had been cleared in the center for dancing, and Lyanna remembered her promise to the Viper with a smile. At least there was someone she was looking forward to meeting. She sat behind a table at the head of the Northerners, along with Brandon, Ned, and Benjen. Robert smirked at her from his place before the Stormlanders, but she barely noticed. She, like all the Great Lords and Ladies, were facing the dais of the royal family. That was what grabbed her attention. Never mind regal Rhaegar Targaryen, sitting beside his absent father's allotted seat, or sweet Elia and her adorable daughter Rhaenys. Oberyn Martell, sitting to his sister's right, was looking straight at her.

She wanted nothing more than to strike up a conversation with Ben and never look towards him again, but instead offered him a smile. Oberyn grinned and raised his wine glass in her direction in a silent toast. Then, taking a sip-or really more of a gulp-he turned to his young niece and began to play with her. And Lyanna finally decided to listen to the conversation.

"Oi, Brandon!" Domeric Bolton exclaimed from his seat near theirs. "Is it true the North's she-wolf is to be wed?"

The sour looks from all three of her brothers made him shut his mouth very quickly, but unfortunately an Umber from further down had overheard, and when he repeated the question so had practically the whole of Harrenhal.

"Well?" an already drunk Tyrell screeched. "Is there an announcement we should hear from House Stark?" A few people murmured in agreement, and Lyanna saw Domeric mouth 'sorry' out of the corner of her eye.

Brandon shut his eyes tightly for a few seconds and then opened them again, standing to address the crowd.

"I hoped to make the announcement at a later time, and so I apologize if we are spoiling the evening for His Royal Highness Prince Rhaegar, or the Princess Elia."

"Not at all," the prince said. "There is nothing like a happy event to fuel the celebrations. Pray continue, Lord Stark."

Brandon smiled weakly and shot Lya a pitiful look. "House Stark is overjoyed to announce the betrothal of our only daughter, Lady Lyanna, to Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End. Long may they live!"

There were cheers and toasts from the crowd as Lya stood to receive them, and every man and woman was lively with congratulations. Except for Dorne's snake, who sat motionless and frowning.

"Let the dancing begin!" some Frey or another called, and the cry was echoed by many others. The singers began their routine, and men stood to ask their women onto the floor. Robert stood, making his way towards her just as Oberyn did.

Robert reached her first, and she couldn't say she was happy about it.

"Come dance with me, Lya!" he practically ordered as he laughed, and her lips thinned in frustration.

"Of course, Robert," she agreed through clenched teeth, standing as he led her to the dance floor. He smelled faintly of wine, but she could ignore it if she tried, even with her head inches from his.

"You look beautiful. The dress certainly outlines your figure well." He winked and she did her best not to roll her eyes.

"Thank you," was her curt reply and he did not say anything else, choosing to instead stare at a serving girl as she walked away.

The music changed after what seemed like hours and she was passed to the Bolton boy, who looked rather sheepish.

"I'm sorry if I ruined something, my lady," he apologized and she merely scoffed.

"It was bound to come out sometime." As an afterthought, she added "We should go out riding soon, before I'm off south."

His eyes widened. "I can't, my lady. You are to be married, it would be most improper."

She did not say anything else after that, too annoyed to reply to any of his questions, and, sensing this, he gave her to the closest man. This happened to be a Lonmouth, and then Jaime Lannister, some distant Arryn cousin, and finally Brandon chose to save her from being passed to a Frey by taking her hand and leading her into a faster paced Northern dance.

She laughed through it, and almost didn't notice the hand on her elbow.

"Well, Lady Stark? Can I have that dance now?"

She was smiling even before turning, choosing to ignore Brandon's furrowed eyebrows.

"I'm not sure that's wise-"

"Of course," she interrupted him, letting herself be led to the center of the floor.

"I must say, I was rather surprised you said yes."

"Why?"

"I'm not the most noble lord, Lady Stark. Or is it Lady Baratheon now?"

She frowned. "It's Lyanna. Lady Stark was my mother and Lady Baratheon waits in the future."

Oberyn nodded, pulling her closer. "Well, Lyanna, as I was saying, I am not a prince from the songs, now am I? Surely nothing like your husband-to-be."

He was baiting her, she knew it, but she couldn't help but rise to it.

"Good."

He spun her in time with the music, and she noted that he was certainly graceful. "Do I sense resistance?" She didn't reply. "Too personal? Alright, alright. Let's talk of the North."

"What about it?"

He didn't seem to have thought that far. "I hear it's… cold."

She laughed. "That's an understatement, my lord. It's icy."

"How do you manage it?"

"There's furs involved, and quite some denial," she answered, smiling at the thought.

He shook his head. "I couldn't handle that."

"Oh? I would've thought your Dornish blood would do you good in the Northern cold."

"I fear it would freeze in my veins. It would explain why Northerners are so passive."

"Passive? Gods no, that's the Vale! Have you ever met an Umber or a Karstark?"

"Can't say I have."

"Well, try to. Anyhow, you've met me. Do I seem passive to you?"

His lips curved upwards and his eyes remained fixed on hers. "Definitely not."

She felt her face heat up and was sure she was blushing. "The music has changed."

"I know," he shrugged.

"Shouldn't you hand me to someone, my lord?"

"Oberyn."

She started. "What?"

"If I'm to call you Lyanna, you should call me Oberyn. And you're not one to hand off in that manner. Remind your brother of that." As an afterthought, he added "Besides, the closest man was a Yronwood, and I don't like them."

"They're one of your bannermen!" she reprimanded as he quickened his pace to match the music.

"So?"

"You shouldn't say things like that where they can hear you." It seemed like common sense to her.

"I honestly don't give a damn," he murmured, giving her a twirl.

She laughed, and then added somewhat bitterly, "You certainly are honest. Yet I don't suppose you told anyone you were bested by a woman earlier?"

She was aware that most were staring at them, but she, rather in his mindset right now (and perhaps influenced by the little wine she had drank) didn't care. He raised an eyebrow.

"Why wouldn't I?"

Lya was shocked. "I'm a girl, your- Oberyn. I'm one of the fairer sex. Men see it as shameful if we beat you in anything."

"Most men," he corrected. "I m not like them, Lyanna."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domeric Bolton was Roose Bolton's only true born child (before Walda's kid) by Bethany Ryswell (Barbrey Dustin's sister). He seems like a nice enough guy, for a Bolton, as when he discovered he had a bastard half-brother (Ramsay) he went to seek him out to make him family. He died in 297 AD, of "a sickness of the bowels", yet Roose suspects it was Ramsay who poisoned him. Rose says that "not even Lord Rickard's daughter could outrace him", the girl being Lyanna, and calls him a "quiet boy, but accomplished".


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little holiday gift for everyone. Thanks for the kudos!

That had been the calm before the storm, she supposed. The next day, Robert was suffering from a hangover of massive proportions and remembered close to nothing. Of course, the exception was her dance with the Red Viper.

“I don’t like it,” he groaned, grabbing a nearby chair for support. “He’s not good for you, Lyanna.”

Her temper had riled up, and she had responded with something along the lines of “Excuse me, my lord, but I think I know what’s good for me.” He had not liked that response, and the argument about Oberyn fucking Martell had lasted close to three hours. Not even Brandon had tried to defend her, likely agreeing with Robert’s sentiment, if not his general attitude. As she always did, she took off for the stables. A ride on Winter would clear her head, if not soften her temper.

Harrenhal’s stables were enormous. They had to be, to accommodate the horses of almost every single lord and knight in Westeros. The majority seemed to be brown in color, as it was best for hiding tourney ground dust. The few exceptions were her own Winter, who was a very pretty grey, some white lord’s horses, and a familiar black sand steed.

“Ah, Lyanna. Fancy seeing you here.”

She turned towards the sound, already knowing who it was. “You should have foreseen it, Oberyn.” His name still felt unnatural to say, almost disrespectful.  
“Yes, well it’s only been a few hours since we said goodbye. Don’t you remember?”

Of course she did. The feast had gone into the wee hours of the morning, and though she had danced with others, she kept going back to him. They had danced, what, a total of six times?

“I enjoy riding. Besides, my horse will grow bored if he isn’t allowed to run. Isn’t that right?” The last question was directed at Winter himself, who snorted and stomped a hoof down.

“Yes, Bloodspear is quite the same.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “You named him Bloodspear?”

“Yes, commonly referred to as simply Blood. What’s wrong with my choice?”

She shook her head. “It’s such an obvious turn on the Martell seat.”

“As opposed to yours?”

“At least I don’t try to hide it.”

Oberyn nodded, as if understanding. “Well, no matter what the name, a sand steed is faster than all other horses.”

“Have you forgotten the circumstances under which we met?” she mocked.

He sat on a bale of hay, pouting. “Alas, your refusal to give me a kiss crushed my spirits on that day. I prefer not to recall the disappointment.”

“Well, in that case,” she said, putting Winter’s saddle on him, “I challenge you to a rematch.”

“Another chance is all I need to beat you.”

She smiled. “It will be fun to watch you fail again.”

With no warning, Oberyn jumped on his horse and galloped out of the stables. She clambered onto Winter and spurred him on.

She caught up to her opponent with difficulty, much to her surprise. Maybe there was something in the popularity of sand steeds in Dorne, after all. Yet she was not content being on his tail. Lyanna leaned forward in the saddle, throwing all her weight towards Oberyn. Yet every time she seemed to gain on him, he simply drove Blood faster. It was impossible for that horse to keep finding new sources of speed, was it not?

The she realized- he was heading for the forest. There was little Winter could do in there. His horse had more agility, and though the path was clear, it did wind. The whole race depended on her reaching it first.

Needless to say, she made it. He led his horse through the trees, disappearing from her view. She did not slow her pace, reaching a clearing after a few minutes of riding.

Winter slowed his pace.

She did not see him. She had likely won again. “Hello?”

Hearing a chuckle from behind a tree, she went to investigate. Oberyn walked out from his seat on a log, holding out an apple.  
“It would seem I won.”

Lya pouted. “It was hardly fair. You had a head start.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I still won. I never promised it would be fair.”

She took the apple, giving it to her horse. “No wonder you don’t joust. You’d never be able to follow any of the rules.”

He held his hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Of course I joust. Less frequently after the accident with Willas Tyrell, as my brother thought it would be prudent to lie low for some time.”

“Yet you enjoy the melee more.”

“Yes.”

“My brother is the same, but Father doesn’t allow him. Too risky for the heir to the North, hotblooded as he is.”

Oberyn bit his own apple once more. “I’m glad I am not a first child. It gives me much more freedom. While my brother sat in Sunspear, I traveled Essos. I rode with the Second Sons for some time, actually. Now that’s living, not these Southron lords playing their game.”

“What game?”

“The game. The game of thrones.”

Lyanna nodded. She knew something about that. After all, her own father sold his children off to the South in hope of power. The same was true for Princess Elia, she was sure. It must be difficult, living in the Red Keep. She had never spoken to the Princess. Why was she feeling sympathy for her?

A horn blew from camp, and it dawned on her that she had been gone for quite some time. Turning around, she looked at Oberyn, waiting for him to have the same thought. He nodded, understanding her plight.

“Go. Thank you for the ride, my lady.”

“I will see you later, Oberyn. Goodbye.” She jumped on Winter, heading down the path once more.


	5. Chapter 5

“Where have you _been_?” Brandon demanded. She had barely walked into the tent before all three of her brothers had jumped on her, insisting on answers. She brushed them off and stalked away to her tent, her wolfblood taking control. She had enjoyed her time riding, may the Gods damn it, and they weren’t about to ruin it for her.

Changing out of her worn riding clothes and into a fresh pair of breeches, Lyanna took her hair out of it’s braid. There were blades of grass in it, somehow. She shook her head to get rid of them and tied her hair back once more. Gwyn rushed into the tent after her, ready to help her dress. She shook her head. She was a wolf, and wolves did not need help putting their shirts on.

Her brothers still waited for her as she stepped out again. Benjen looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, and perhaps he would. He was, after all, a young boy at his first tourney. Ned only looked tired. Then again, Lyanna reflected bitterly, Ned always looked tired. And Brandon… oh Brandon, whatever had happened to the North being there for her? Where was the North now?

She stood before them, waiting for their judgement. But nothing came.

“We were worried,” Ned offered, in way of an olive branch. She accepted it.

“I was fine.” They walked together into the main tent, waiting until then before they could continue the conversation.

“Where were you?” Brandon tried again, his tone only slightly calmer. “We looked everywhere, Robert was sure you’d been taken. Wanted to send a search party. I reminded him that my sister was a Stark, and a Stark could take on twice the number of men as others, plus one.”

Her heart swelled with happiness and pride at her brother’s words. He smiled his usual grin at her, but that wasn’t the last of it. “But unbeknownst to Robert, what we feared was that you’d run off. Now that- that could not be solved by a search party either. You’re a Stark, and you could outrun that lumbering oaf easily.”

Ned sighed at his brother's’ antics. “Brandon, please.” It was still his hope that his sister and best friend could find happiness. He held onto that thought, perhaps foolishly.

Benjen finally spoke up. “I checked the stables, and your horse was gone. I told them you’d only gone for a ride, but they don’t listen.”

Lyanna smiled at them. “I was fine,” she repeated, shaking her head.

Benjen looked at her like he’d known it all along and had never doubted it, but she could see a bit of relief in his eyes. _Little brother, you know I tell you everything._ And Ned and Brandon looked like they wanted to ask more, but a shadow fell across the tent, causing Brandon to scowl and Ned to press a hand to his temple.

“Lyanna?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oberyn took his time riding back, though the ride was hardly as enjoyable as when she was here. He scoffed at his thoughts. The girl was sixteen. He had six years on her.

(Then again, Robert was nineteen, and her family seemed to have no issue with that)

Still, he already had three daughters. His eldest was barely younger than her little brother. Even if he was to bed her, it would mean to wed her, for her family would never suffer such an insult, _and may the Mother damn it, why was he thinking about this_.

Shaking his head in annoyance, Oberyn rode his horse to the stables. A young man stopped him, as if apologetic. “Lord Martell, I was wondering if you-”

“That’s Prince Martell, and not now,” he snapped, dismounting and heading to his sisters’ tent. Storming in, he was ready to start yet another rant about how the expectations of the family were too much to bear, but the sight he was greeted with cut all these complaints out of his head.

“Oh, gods above, my eyes!”

Elia rolled her eyes at his dramatics, gently standing. “Honestly, Oberyn, it was but a peck on the cheek.” Prince Rhaegar smiled as well, before nodding his goodbyes. “Good luck at the tourney, my prince.”

Oberyn loudly pretended to wash his eyes out with wine. “I’ll have to down two bottles! If you’re not more careful, you’ll end up pregnant again.”

She sighed. “First of all, if a kiss is all it takes, you’d have three times the number of children. Secondly, well… it’s a little too late for that.”

It took him a while to comprehend. “You mean…” _Yes, of course she meant that, you blind idiot_ , Lyanna’s voice chastised him. Suddenly he was torn between wanting to hug her and also gut her husband. He decided to do a bit of both.

“Well, congratulations, I suppose…”

Elia glared at him. “More. Enthusiasm.”

“Elia, the last one almost killed you.” He had to say it. He had to.

“The last one also gave us Rhaenys, your niece. Hopefully this one,” she said, looking down at her stomach, “will give you a nephew.”

While happy, he could not help but bitterly say, “Ah yes, Rhaegar’s silver heir.”

“Oberyn,” his sister warned.

“Honestly, Elia, it’s stupid. In Dorne, Rhaenys would be the ruler, and if you had been born first it would have been you,” he all but whined.

His sister smiled fondly. “And I would have been a terrible one. Too kind.”

“You would have been a great one,” he insisted. “Better than me, in any case.”

“Yes, there’s one thing we can agree on,” she teased, and he made to tickle her side. She ducked away though, and for a second he was back in the Water Gardens as a child, chasing his sister as the other children splashed nearby, with Arthur Dayne staring longingly at them from afar. Yet now Arthur was a Kingsguard, and the children of their bannermen and smallfolk alike were grown up.

“What’s wrong, brother?” Elia asked him, sensing his troubled thoughts.

He grinned weakly. “Nothing at all, El. Nothing at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee, wonder who's in the tent.  
> And this is one last day of calm before the Storm for Oberyn (that is, Robert, the melee, and the fateful crowning)  
> Just remember that there's no R+L in this one. Hope you enjoyed, and comments and kudos are very very motivating (so we can prevent a 3 month wait like this time. sorry)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howland Reed and an argument

“What were you thinking?” Robert roared, and she couldn’t help but flinch. “You- you went riding with that- that bastard! I am your betrothed!” The stench of wine was heavy on his breath, and she scrunched up her nose at it.

“And not my owner!” she yelled back, yet she was powerless to stop his yells.

“He has three bastard daughters-”

“As if you can judge!” she shrieked. That silenced him, so she continued. “I go riding with one man and the realm topples over, but Robert Baratheon-”

“You know his reputation!” Robert continued, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. “Everything he does he does to bed someone, rumor has it he goes to bed with squires, what am I supposed to think when my Lyanna is found-”

“That is enough,” her brother’s voice stopped them. Brandon stood, looking more like her father than he ever had. “Lord Robert, I would greatly appreciate it if you stopped questioning my lady sister’s virtue, as well as yelling in her face.” His voice was steely, cold, and Lyanna knew he would only begin with her once Robert had gone.

The Baratheon lord clearly saw the error he had made, his face growing slack. “Brandon, I never meant-”

Ned jumped up before he could slip up again. “Come, my friend, I will take you to your tent.” He shot Lyanna an apologetic look, but she ignored it. It had been Ned to bring that monster into her life, and he could handle taking it home.

Once he was gone, Brandon let out a frustrated groan. “Doys!” he swore, banging a hand against the table. “If that shit comes back here as if he’s screaming for your blood, I’ll fucking impale him!”

“Glad you see it my way,” she said, but he only glared.

“No, Lyanna, I do not see it your way. You go out riding with a man-”

“We only raced to the woods, nothing happened!” she insisted, stomping her foot. While she wished she hadn’t looked so childish, it seemed to work in her favor, for Brandon was clearly reminded of days past.

He smiled. “I know. Benjen knows. Ned knows. But everyone else will not see it that way. It’ll be everywhere by noon.” Suddenly he gasped. “Oh, Gods, the tourney!”

“You’re late,” she realized. “If you don’t show, you’ll have to forfeit. That’s why we came here, you’re not missing it! I’m not missing it!”

He ran out, screaming for Benjen to come and help him put his armor on. “Gwyn, go help Lady Lyanna with her dress,” he ordered, “and Lyanna?” She looked up. “This isn’t over.” His words were ominous, but his face grinned again, and she knew she was off the hook once more.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

There she was. Her yellow dress was clearly chosen to regain some favor with the Storm Lord, but she didn’t want anything to do with him. Her youngest brother sat by her, glaring every time the stag so much as looked her way, and he could only imagine what had happened to make her look so cold.

And the dress, he would comment later, was too dark to be Baratheon. The dressmaker had fucked up, for if you squinted hard enough you could almost imagine she wore Martell orange.  
The melee came the next day, for some crazy reason (couldn't they just get it all over with?), and after even one more round of jousts. He could hardly wait to sink his spear into Robert Baratheon and every hypocritical man in that arena for the sneers they sent her.

(Of course, he wouldn’t, because Elia had said it wouldn’t be “socially acceptable”).

He was no fan of honor, but tomorrow he’d defend hers. In his own way, of course.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Benjen, you needn’t sit so close to me. It’s only the first few rounds, only hedge knights and second born sons.”

Benjen shook his head stubbornly. “Lyanna, I may not have been in that tent, but I heard the shouts. And if Robert Baratheon thinks he’s going to corner you at a tourney and try to make amends, then…”

She shushed him. “People will hear!”

“Let them,” he mumbled, but he shut up all the same.

She smoothed down her Southron dress, it’s dark yellow folds unfurling under her hands like water. It was too dark to be Baratheon, she thought with a smirk. If she tried, she could almost imagine she was dressed in the Martell orange, riding a sand steed through the Dornish heat. The horse was black, she noticed, with a red mane, and _what the fuck was wrong with her._ She shook her head, trying to clear thoughts of one particular horse she had seen just that morning. _Winter. Think of Winter._ Her horse whinnied angrily in her head.

Benjen screamed next to her, and she realized that a rider of blue and green had been unhorsed. She didn’t recognize the sigil, so she didn’t bother craning her head to see the man.

Trusting that Benjen wouldn’t notice her leaving now, Lyanna crept out of the stands. She would only start watching when the real competitors, the lords and knights began to joust. It was just as well, for Ned could hardly keep Robert under control the whole time. Probably better for her to make herself scarce.

She walked amidst the tents until she heard the shouts. She could hear three loud, angry voices, as well as some small whimpers of pain. Grabbing a nearby stick, she set off towards them.

The man being hurt was small, with green clothes and a small black reptile on the front of his shirt. With a start, Lyanna recognized the sigil of House Reed.

“That’s my father's’ man you’re kicking!” she shouted, bringing her stick down on the first boy’s back. He stumbled, glaring at her. He wore a pitchfork, and tried to run at her. Lyanna’s stick hit him in the stomach, and he groaned and fell down. As on with two towers on his shirt laughed, Lyanna swung her stick at his head. It hit him and, still dizzy, he screamed and the boys scattered.

She offered the crannogman a hand. “Come, I’ll take you to our tent.”

The stares she got as she walked across camp with a bleeding crannogman were priceless, but they were not what she wished to focus on. She had to keep her mind on the man she was supporting, for she feared that if she did not they would both fall.

Ned caught sight of her about halfway to their tent, and immediately rushed to help her without asking a single question. It was what she liked most about Ned, and despite her frustrations over Robert, she couldn’t stay mad at him too long.

“How did Brandon do?” she asked, standing straight after being relieved of the weight. Ned filled her in on the main points, in his own straightforward manner, and so she knew she’d have to fill in the gaps herself.

Running to fetch a pail of water, Lyanna almost missed her eldest brother himself. He groaned at the sight of the dirt on her new dress, rolled his eyes, and then brought the pail in for her.

“Can you imagine what Father’s going to do to me if word gets to him of the state of you?”

“Honestly, brother? I don’t care.”

Brandon sighed, knocking back another glass of wine. “Two rounds, and my sister doesn’t even come to watch me.”

She scoffed. “You fought a hedge knight stupid enough to think that because you were Northern you weren’t good and some distant Tyrell cousin. Please, Bran, calm down.” Lyanna pressed a rag down on Howland Reed’s cheek. “How does that feel?”

The man nodded. “Much better, thank you, my lady.”

Smiling, she continued. “Really, you must remember that they’ve already gone through three other days of jousts. You simply weren’t required to be present at those. It’s not like today was all that special, they’re still weeding out lesser knights. I’ll watch you tomorrow.”

“Won’t you be watching the races today, Lya?” Ned asked her.

She shrugged. “No need. I already know who’s going to win.”

Brandon mulled over his wine. “I have my money down on Domeric Bolton. The boy’s fast, and Northern.”

Lyanna laughed dryly, wringing her rag over a pail. “Mine’s on the Red Viper.”

Ned’s face darkened, but Brandon only seemed intrigued. “Why?” He sat down, rubbing at one particularly bruised shoulder. “He didn’t beat you when we first arrived, and I didn’t see anything special about his style.”

“His horse,” Lyanna explained, “is the only sand steed registered. Not a large Dornish population here, I suppose. And let me tell you, Bloodspear is something.”

“First name basis already?” Brandon teased, and she shot him a smirk, saying the one thing that could anger him further.

“With Oberyn or his horse?”

The second glass of wine was swallowed as well, going down faster than the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around, what with my terrible updating. Hope you enjoy (and leave comments)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning that I know very little about jousting.

He sighed, dismounting his horse by a stream and letting his feet rest in the water. It was cold, practically freezing, but if he tried he could pretend he was still in Dorne. That was where he belonged, not here, where obnoxious lords smiled to his face only to sneer behind his back.

Not that he minded, but some things do get tiring.

He must not have been paying attention, for the next thing he knew there was another person beside him. Before he could open his eyes, he heard the voice.

“Thank you for winning me those fifty gold dragons yesterday.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “Isn’t it a bit early to be up, my lady?”

Lyanna’s face darkened. “Don’t call me ‘my lady’.” She was back in her preferred shirt and breeches, her hair tied back loosely with a leather strip. “And no, it’s not. But if you don’t want me here, Oberyn, I can go.”

She stood to leave, and he panicked slightly, grabbing her hand and effectively stopping her. “I don’t mind.”

Lyanna grinned, as if she had seen his words coming before he had, and before she had even said her piece. She sat down again, and he felt himself relax. Good. Now it was as it should be.

Bloodspear nudged him, perhaps harshly, and he had never believed in bonds with an animal as much as he did at that moment. _What am I thinking?_

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” he told the steed, patting his head. A silence ensued, one that Oberyn wasn’t quite sure what to make of. He busied himself in observing the grass.

Lyanna nudged his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

He chuckled half-heartedly. “Of course I am. Why would you think otherwise?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do I look like Robert to you? Meaning, am I one of the most unobservant shits on this side of the Narrow Sea?”

“Well, someone’s mad, and it’s not me.” Then he shrugged. “Besides, he’d be the most unobservant shit on the other side of the Narrow Sea, believe me.”

“Yes, yes, the well-travelled and knowledgeable Prince Oberyn. Good to know they have standards on Essos.” She paused, eyeing him. “So, the jousting is today. Are you going to watch?”

He nodded. “Of course. Then there’s the melee, after lunch, so I’ll have the chance to win you some more golden dragons.”

Lyanna gave him a smug look. “What makes you think I bet on you?”

“What, you’d bet on Robert? Don’t make me laugh.”

She laughed at that. “Fair point. You want to know why I’m here so early?”

“Thought it wasn’t early,” he cracked, then sobered up. “What is it?”

“Father sent a raven- my wedding’s to be set for next spring.” She sighed. “I don’t want to marry him. You know what I want, Oberyn? I want to travel. I want to go to Braavos. I want to see the Titan. I want to hear the bells of Norvos. I want to see Valyrian steel being forged, and I want to fucking try pear brandy.”

Oberyn smiled. “That’s quite the list. I can help you out with it, you know.”

Lyanna looked at him, with his horse and his spear and his shirt with the golden suns emblazoned on it, and shook her head slowly. “No, you can’t, unless you mean to steal me away to Dorne.”

He nodded. “Maybe I do.”

She leaned closer, letting her head rest on his shoulder. “But, you can’t, can you?” she whispered, before jumping up to answer the distant yells of her name. Jumping on her horse, she rode off.

Oberyn frowned, standing up himself. _Fuck this._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What do you mean, you’re sick? You can’t be sick. Today’s the fun part, Lya!”

She rolled her eyes at Brandon’s theatrics, coughing to prove her point. “You saying it doesn’t make it true, Bran,” she croaked.

Her brother sighed, handing Benjen a gauntlet and gesturing to the door. “This is what happens when you take all those morning rides. Not to sound like Old Nan, but you probably caught cold. I’ll come back just before the melee starts, to be a responsible brother and all that. Perhaps you’ll be feeling better by then.”

Lyanna smiled weakly. “I’m sure I will. Good luck today.” T

hey left without further protest, and after sending her handmaiden away, Lyanna crept out as well.

It had been easy to find a horse. After all, Harrenhal had some of the largest stables she’d ever seen, and one benefit of being sister to a man who loved his drink (and betrothed to another) was that you always knew just who was feeling “too sick” to participate in the scheduled events.

As it was, Lord Errol of the Stormlands had gone a bit too far whilst drinking with Robert the other day, and he had brought two extra horses with him besides the one he usually rode, the one that would be recognizable.

Was it technically theft?

Lyanna preferred to think of it as borrowing. She would be returning the steed, of course, and Lord Errol had once offered his services to her as future Lady of Storm’s End, so she was only cashing in that promise.

Finding the armor was far more difficult.

She was originally going to borrow Benjen’s, for it had never been used (he had received it for his recent birthday, but it was not as if the boy had ever participated in a joust).

There was only one problem with this plan- Benjen’s vambraces had Stark direwolves on them.

“Fuck, fuck, doys, doys, doys,” she swore, words rapidfire and in different languages.

Glancing up, she saw the luckiest sight she would see all day.

Oberyn Martell sat outside his tent, sharpening his spear, with seemingly nobody around him.

Lyanna ran out from amidst the tents to greet him, sheepishly thinking of her request in her head. Before she could speak, however, he looked up.

Eyes darting between her and the horse she led, he spoke. “Is that even your horse?”

She shrugged. “Not exactly.”

“Then why-”

She clapped a hand over his mouth, checking for listeners. “Shut up, Oberyn. I need vambraces.”

This time, he didn’t ask questions, only sighed. “I swear to to the Gods, Stark, you’ll be the death of me.” He hopped up, spear forgotten. “Alright, well, I don’t have any, because any armor from north of the Marches is fucking stupid, but I can find you a pair. Wait here.”

Internally commenting on how comical the situation was becoming, she gestured towards the horse with a jerk of her head.

He paused. “On a second note, go hide behind those tents over there. They’re Yronwoods-”

Lyanna smirked. “So fuck ‘em, right?”

He tried not to smile, continuing. “-and they’re all in a deep, wine-and-ale induced sleep by now. I’ll be right back.”

Lyanna fidgeted as she waited, thoughts of all that could go wrong flitting through her head at a mile a minute. She could be impaled, crushed by a horse, discovered- somehow, she ignored them all, choosing to focus on the crannogman’s honor and beating the squires who hurt her bannerman.

Oberyn emerged with bronze vambraces, which he handed to her with a grimace. “Who are you fighting?”

She cocked her head to one side as she tried them on for size. “Why, Viper? You worried?”

“Yes. For the other knight.” He grabbed hold of the newly procured armor, forcing her to look at him. “Now these are Arthur Dayne’s from when he was much, much younger. Few people remember him that young. Being a Dornishman, he is unlikely to betray your confidence. Still, he counts them as lucky, so try not to damage them.”

She promised, running away before he could get another word in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Brother!” Elia exclaimed, reaching one arm up to grasp his arm and force him down in the seat beside her. “Sit with me and Rhaenys, we’ve missed you. You’re hardly around anymore.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You haven’t been with Lord Allyrion’s squire, have you?”

Oberyn shook his head. “No. Just out riding.” Eager to change the conversation he, pointed towards the grounds. “Where’s your regal husband?”

Elia pointed him out. “Rhaenys is ever so excited for her father’s turn. Wouldn’t stop asking us questions about this and that, and ‘mother, what color will the crown be?’”

He ruffled his niece's hair and she glared at him. “Stop.”

Elia shushed her, fixing her hair again. “Yes, Oberyn, stop teasing.”

He would have said something back if the horn hadn’t blown, signalling the start of the jousting. Rhaenys jumped to her feet, clapping and laughing as her uncle sat her on his lap so that she could see better.

“Ser Richard Lonmouth-” the announcer shouted, “versus Ser Orwyn Whent.”

Lonmouth made easy pickings of the bats on the other knight’s shield, and Oberyn chose to ignore the regular ransoming ritual that followed, busying himself with the re-braiding of Rhaenys’ hair. After all, three daughters did teach one quite a lot.

Lord Yohn Royce and Ser Oswell Whent were a more interesting pairing, but after that came a host of lesser knights trying to prove themselves and so he grew bored again. It was only at Elia’s nudge that he refocused on the field, eyes widening.

There, atop a brown horse, sat a small figure in silver armor with bronze vambraces and a large shield that held a painted weirwood on it’s front.

“-versus the Knight of the Laughing Tree!”

The announcer may have sounded far more gleeful than before, but Oberyn felt dread with just a slight bit of pride mixed in.

They charged towards each other, and both lances splintered. Lyanna almost seemed to teeter in her saddle and he almost jumped up, but she regained her balance. The other knight did not, and he internally rolled his eyes at the skills of House Haigh.

The next man up was a knight of House Blount. This match was more precarious than the last, with the lances breaking twice before the porcupine knight was finally toppled from his seat, thanks to a hit just under his shoulder.

It seemed Lyanna had chosen a knight of House Frey for her next opponent. This man was larger, heavier, and probably more skilled than the last two. Oberyn hoped she could use his size against him- a hit to his left shoulder and all would be well. It was lucky that Lyanna was an expert horsewoman, for if she was any less skilled she would have fallen, and then there was no way to protect her identity. He saw the Frey’s defeat coming before even he did- his horse edged away from the Knight of the Laughing Tree’s lance, but the Frey leaned towards it, and he toppled with one hit.

“What ransom would you have from your opponents, Ser?”

“I ask only that they teach their squires honor,” Lyanna boomed, her voice deeper thanks to the echo (and probably her own efforts as well).

The crowd under the dais screamed with excitement, for everybody loves a mystery knight, and even the highborn whispered fervently to each other. He looked straight at the knight’s visor and smiled. Maybe she had seen him, for she gave a nod in his direction.

All festivities stopped when the King stood and pointed one gnarled finger towards the knight. “You fought bravely, Ser. Take off your helm so that we may see your face.”

One second, then another, then Lyanna shook her head and Oberyn’s blood ran cold.

The Mad King wasn’t known for mercy, so when Elia squeezed his hand in fear, he could do nothing but squeeze back and stare at the man with eyes that had been described by Edgar Yronwood as “viper-like, almost provoking me to strike”.

Of course, Edgar Yronwood had died in the end, so perhaps he should have ignored his anger.

He almost missed the Knight of the Laughing Tree galloping off towards the woods, but he didn’t miss Aerys’ shrill screams for his son to find the man that had committed treason, and he didn’t waste any time in slipping away from the stands before he could be missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Know you've been waiting for a while, so this one's longer. Thanks for all the comments and kudos (though I do encourage you to leave more)  
> Enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath and the melee

Why was she such a fool? 

Lyanna rode the horse into the woods until the poor thing was jerking his head and shaking, the cool air around him doing little to ease his pain. When she thought she had gone far enough, she jumped off and removed the saddle. The horse didn’t hesitate to leave as soon as she’d freed him.

She’d thought of everything but the king.

Now, sweaty and in full armor, she was stuck in the woods without a horse and probably with half the castle on her tail. With her next glance, she realized she didn’t need to worry.

Her flight had taken her to the godswood, if the red leaves littering the ground were anything to go by. She only had to follow them for minutes before she saw the angriest heart tree she ever had seen, and the mere sight sent a chill down her spine.

The tree at Winterfell was stern, imposing even, but it’s eyes looked more like a reprimanding father’s than an enemy. This tree, however, looked as if it had seen the worst of humanity and damned them all for it. Perhaps it had. The scars on it’s trunk told of battles right here on sacred land, and they were deep and bleeding. 

She would have to ask Ned about them. He might know the story. Brandon and Benjen, while they prayed and followed the Old Customs, had never been particularly devout. It had been her and Ned for that. They took after her mother in it, people said.

If there was a chance that her brother would know, Lyarra certainly would have.

Lyanna briefly wondered if her mother was looking at her now, and if she liked what she saw.

Distant sounds struck her out of her reverie, and she removed her helm before all. Benjen’s helm, with it’s silver and embellishments, was flung into the branches of the tree. The spring had been kind to it, had given it an abundance of leaves that covered any traces of metal with ease. Next came his breastplate, gardbrace, and every other piece she could remove. She clambered into the tree to secure them.

She could have done with some help, but the godswood gave her cover and bought her time. The voices faded. 

Marvelling at her luck, she was left with the bronze vambraces-  _ The Sword of the Morning’s  _ vambraces, can you imagine? Benjen would have killed to be in her place- and shield. With a final look towards the painted tree, she dropped it into the pool and watched it fall into the black depths. 

Perhaps her mother was smiling upon her after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He arrived at the stables just in time to see the horse run in, riderless. It looked properly scared, but he couldn’t deal with that now. If she wasn’t on it, she was still in the woods.

The king was as mad as everyone said, but never had it been so obvious to the masses. Elia always wrote him of it, however dangerous that was. They used code that they had thought of when they were children, when they needed to communicate when it was best to ask Mother to go for a ride or come up with stories to cover their whereabouts. Now it was used to describe the mood swings of Elia’s goodfather, how many times he’d insulted Rhaenys in and out of her earshot, when he would burn his people, and what he would do to Rhaella Targaryen after.

He could hear the search party rustling about and shouting between each other, glad that they were idiots, at least. Lyanna could hear them from miles away with the racket they were making.

She would stay hidden (he hoped) but where? She barely knew Harrenhal and it’s grounds. The same went for him, and the doubt reminded him once more of why he hated crossing the Red Mountains. There were too many places for people to hide themselves up here.

Lyanna would head somewhere familiar, he decided. 

The only place familiar here was the godswood.

Truth be told, he didn’t know where that was. He found it anyway. In the years to come, he would look back on that day and remember the first time Oberyn Martell had spared the gods a second thought.

Lyanna was sitting in the tree, of all things, while the search raged on around her, singing a Northern song under her breath with Arthur Dayne’s vambraces in her hand, and he promised himself that Robert Baratheon wasn’t going to break her.

“Let’s go,” he said, still nervous as hooves clambered around them. 

She didn’t waste time on hopping on his horse behind him. “Thank you. I need to go to the stables, but I can walk to the tent from there. We can’t let anyone see me, they think I’m sick.”

“I’ll get you there. The king’s still screeching, so I propose we focus on that instead of your brothers, though.” 

They rode in silence to better hear any horses around them, but they hadn’t considered that the horses of the Kingsguard would be standing still. 

Oberyn had always hated Darry. He was, in all honesty, a metaphorical bastard and disgrace to his cloak, what with his blind obedience to the king. So when Oberyn was asked a question, he couldn’t help his replies, really.

“Well, what’s this? Neither of you has seen a knight hereabouts, have you?”

“I’ve met plenty of true knights, Ser Jonothor, but none today.”

Lyanna elbowed him from behind, trying to hide her face. 

“We’re searching for a man today,” Ser Jonothor bit back. “I have yet to find one.”

It wouldn’t have come to blows. He wasn’t stupid enough to fight the Kingsguard, but the argument would have simmered until the pot boiled over and one of them left, because a Kingsguard couldn’t hit the queen-to-be’s brother either. 

“Who is the girl behind you, Oberyn? Did you find her in the woods?”

“Just let me pass, Darry, and get on with your idiotic search.”

The knight didn’t move but to peer over Oberyn’s shoulder disapprovingly. “Is that Lyanna Stark? I swear to the Father himself, Martell, what have you done now?”

Oberyn chose to glare. Darry didn’t move either, not until Arthur Dayne rode into the clearing. The Sword of the Morning appeared everywhere as if he had arrived to fulfill some ancient quest, with impeccable timing and a self-assured look. 

“What’s happening here, Ser Jonothor? The Prince told you to search the Godswood.”

Ser Jonothor huffed angrily. “You’re hardly the Lord Commander, Dayne. Besides, I would call this suspicious, wouldn’t you? A wolf and a viper consorting in the woods.”

Lyanna’s anger reared it’s head and she looked wolflike when she snapped. “Wolves have teeth, Darry, and I’d thank you not to question my virtue lest I bite yours off.”

Oberyn smirked. “You heard the lady. Now let us go.”

Jonothor rode off in anger, to search the Godswood, no doubt, but Oberyn rode towards Arthur and slipped the vambraces into his hands. 

“Thanks for lending them to us, brother.”

For once, the Sword of the Morning didn’t look quite as heroic, but he looked more like the Arthur Oberyn remembered when he grinned and shook his head. “By the Gods… I don’t think I’m even going to question it, Prince Oberyn.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The rumor was out before lunch was over, and Lyanna was fucking  _ done  _ with the South and its gossip mill. 

Ned hadn’t moved in near half an hour, staring into the table as if it held the secrets to life, and Benjen (who she had told the real story to) had to leave the tent so that he didn’t burst out laughing. 

Brandon was yelling, as per usual.

“ _ Doys _ , Lyanna, are you fucking kidding me? That’s the story you’re going with? You just  _ happened _ to feel better and decided to visit the Godswood, and The Red Viper just  _ happened  _ to find you there and offer you a ride home?”

She shrugged. “Yes.”

“ _ And you accepted? _ ” Brandon roared. “He could have carried down to the Landing before anybody noticed!”

“Surely you love me more than  _ that _ , big brother,” she proclaimed innocently.

He poured himself another glass of wine, gesturing to it’s top. “I have had it up to here with you, Lya. This is the last time you’re ever leaving my sight. Understood?”

She stared at him, almost preferring that fate to the one that awaited her. “You know as well as I do that I’d love to live and die in Winterfell, but that’s not what the plans for me are. Are they, Brandon?”

Brandon’s face softened at that. “Lya-”

“Don’t  _ Lya _ me! I’m to be shipped off to the Stormlands in less than a year! Where I’ll be living with a husband who fucks serving girls behind my back for the rest of my life, birthing child after child and growing old with loneliness while my brothers, who love me  _ so much, _ write me one letter a month until they forget about their  _ Lya _ .”

Brandon didn’t say anything to that, but Ned did. 

“Do you really hate him so?”

His voice was quiet and sad, and she regretted her outburst in that it had upset him.

She met his eyes. “It’s not that I hate him, dear Ned, it’s that I don’t love him and I never will.”

Ned reflected solemnly, then walked to her and placed both hands on her shoulders. “I’d never forget to write, you know.”

Her eyes welled up with tears of grief or love for her brother or perhaps both, and she offered him a smile. “I know, Ned.”

He nodded, just once, then removed his hands from her arms and left the tent, saying he’d be right back.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The melee started late, and he wasn’t deaf to the whispers that “Lyanna’s Loves” would be meeting each other in battle that day. The lords from above the Red Mountains gossipped worse than the old crones, and they fought like them, too. 

His armor was light compared to all these idiots, but only he had been warned five times that to draw blood was to forfeit. The goal of the fight was only to beat. 

Well, he beat Eustace and Harlan Hunter with ease, one brother almost immediately after the other. Richard Lonmouth was harder, but he fell as well. One Frey after another was defeated around him, and he thought he counted upwards of twenty. He only brought down three, himself. He almost felt bad for beating a young Swann, who didn’t look any older than fourteen, but then the boy hissed a Dornish slur at him and Oberyn flipped him onto his stomach. 

By some miracle, it was only him and the Storm Lord left. 

Where Robert Baratheon was muscular, Oberyn was lean, and this helped him in the fight. As Robert lunged, he would dance away and wait for his opponent to stumble forwards before hitting. They each fell once or twice, but they always got back up. 

Robert Baratheon was strong, he admitted, yet not very agile. And he was mad, which made him foolish. After 15 minutes of single combat, he got angrier than ever and charged forwards, hammer raised above his head. One blow would shatter Oberyn’s skull.

All he had to do was extend his spear and sidestep the blunt force of the weapon, and his opponent was thrown off balance by the weight. Then he tripped over the spear and that left Oberyn standing over him with the tip at his eye. 

Without saying anything, he let the sharpened tip run across the other man’s forehead and walked away. 

Robert’s scream of fury was enough to make forfeiting worth it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but thanks for all the comments and kudos!


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